


Stay By My Side

by hurryup, nea_writes



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Skating, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 17:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8293985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hurryup/pseuds/hurryup, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nea_writes/pseuds/nea_writes
Summary: Figure skater Kanda Yuu never thought that the biggest obstacle in his career would be sharing a rink with another skater - except, Allen Walker makes it very hard to focus only on skating. In fact, these days, Kanda thinks he could probably go for the Olympic gold medal in pining.





	

Outside, a hot summer rain had stirred up, hitting the road like silver dollars. By comparison, the skating rink seemed to be another world entirely; the forever air cool and crisp, like another sheet of ice Kanda could glide right over.

Kanda crouched over his skates, fingertips grazing the black synthetic leather as he looped the laces around the eyelets, yanking hard as he went. Mugen, he called them. Something like a habit he couldn't kick. He clicked Mugen's blade against the floor briskly, testing the give. There was something familiar in the tight grip of them around his ankles. It felt good. He shoved his shoes into his duffel bag, then stood.

As he pushed out of the locker room and into the rink, he could hear the sound of blades clattering against ice, the sharp intakes of a skater's breath, and the low murmur of conversation— all undercut by the hum of an ancient air condition system. White noise.

Allen was already on the rink, moving in time to the internal rhythm of some music only he could hear. There was a self-contained poise in his motions that Kanda nearly resented. He seemed lighter than air, the touch of his blade slipping across the ice with a fluidity that seemed all too natural. Like someone perfectly in his element.

Allen's manager, Link, stood off to the side of the rink, eyes set on Allen with a sort of single-minded focus that was either laudable or plain creepy. Every few moments, he'd yank his eyes away only to etch something down onto the clipboard in front of him— then his head would jerk back up in time to watch Allen leap to perform an edge jump.

Kanda slowed mid-program, circling the space instead to watch. Allen's landing step off was a little rough, the transition into the next movement a little disjointed, and Link seemed to catch it. He frowned, bit his lip, and returned to the clipboard with furious intent.

Kanda didn't quite know exactly what Link did. _His_ manager wasn't so invested in his actual performances - that was Tiedoll's job as his coach. His manager handled the traveling and the publicity and the small details Kanda nor Tiedoll could be bothered with. Link did all that, and then some. From his position on the ice, Kanda couldn't see the clipboard, but Link seemed to be writing at the very bottom already for what was surely only twenty minutes into Allen's practice.

Cross snapped something and Allen stuttered on the ice, blades clipping before settling into a smooth glide as he coasted closer to where his coach stood.

"What was _that?"_ Cross demanded, voice carrying clear across the rink to where Kanda stood. He picked up his pace again, scowling when he realized he'd let himself become distracted.

Allen rubbed the back of his head. "What was what?"

"Don't play that shit with me. You can do that jump perfectly fine, so what tripped you up?" Cross' gaze cut across to Kanda, and he met the glare evenly. "You got distracted?"

"What?" Allen asked, offended. He followed Cross' eyes, met Kanda's, and whipped back around to face his coach. "No!"

"Really? Then do it again - and this time, don't fuck up."

Allen shot Link a look that was practically a plea, but Link just shrugged in apparent agreement with Cross. His eyes, however, became no less keen; in fact, Kanda had no doubt he was revising the performance over in his head, working out that which could be improved, that which was extraneous. Kanda wondered what the hell he even knew about ice skating, anyhow.

"Your landing _was_ a little weak. I recommend you run it from the top."

Allen frowned, but moved into position all the same, apparently mollified.

For his own part, Kanda pushed into a loping stride, feeling the stretch in his legs and across his chest as he worked up into a circuit, intent on getting any lingering kinks out from his earlier stretches.

He breathed in deep, the cold air piercing in his lungs. Satisfied with how limber his body felt, Kanda completed the circuit and stood at rest for a moment, sighting down his path and separating the space between he and Allen.

There was something about sharing a practice rink with Allen Walker. Something almost unnerving Kanda couldn't put his finger on. Maybe it was the juxtaposition between two wildly opposing styles confined within one space. Allen moved with something like grace; in fact, there was something nearly feminine in his style, something rare and frankly bizarre to see in any male skater . From the corner of his eye, he could see Allen's body bend delicately, excruciatingly, for a donut spin. Somehow, the sight of it was damn near offensive.

If possible, Kanda would avoid sharing any kind of space with Allen, but his damned coach was old drinking buddies with Cross and Japan had shitty rinks to practice, so here he was stuck in mind-numbing Detroit practising figures with possibly the most flexible men's skater this season's Grand Prix would see.

For two shitty hot months in America Kanda had been running routines in Cross' rink with Allen doing donut spins around him and suffice to say it was utterly maddening.

Kanda worked himself up to a quicker pace, lining himself up for a practice jump. There was a whistle of wind that accompanied the motion; it sent the fall of his tied-up hair whipping behind him like a horizontal sail. Kept it quick. Internally, he was building a rhythm up to his free skate; something dangerous, like the sound of drums. 

He took a deep breath, and exhaled, twisting backwards and kicking off into a flip. He hung suspended in the moment as he turned, and then landed, skating out the momentum before flipping around in a spray of ice that he ignored as he pushed forward. He pushed wide, moving into another circuit and avoiding Allen's routine on the side, ignoring it as best he could.

Despite all the rules and regulations and the stuffy politics surrounding it all, there was a quiet freedom when he was on the ice. Everything fell away, until it was just his cold breath and the sharp cut of the ice under his blades, the stretch in his muscles and whip of his hair as he twisted his body around, suspended in action for that tiny moment where the world disappeared. 

Skating was never something he would have chosen for himself. Hell, he'd fought tooth and nail from the beginning. Yet, here he was, pushing himself into a triple toe jump and landing hard, skate wobbling for the tiniest of seconds that he knew Tiedoll's discerning eye wouldn't miss.

It wasn't something he would have chosen for himself - but, it was something. He could appreciate the technique, the struggle, the effort that went into completing those jumps. The hours spent practicing the footwork, mocking the jumps out on mats before putting them to ice, and then back again perfecting it. Kanda was built for this, the single-minded pursuit of greatness, so despite it all— the hassle, the costumes, the music, the press and publicity— he wanted it. Wanted to taste the victory and raise himself above his beginnings.

He completed another round, looping backwards to try the jump he'd failed again. From the corner of his eye he could see Allen twisting into another spin. He brought his leg up, hooked his fingers around the blade, and met Kanda's piercing glare with his own mocking stare, as if to say _I can do it when you can't._

Fuck that. Kanda wasn't about to force his body into strange positions, no matter what Nyne demanded of him. He cut across hard, pulling in together tight and kicking off from the edge of his blade, completing the jump satisfactorily.

He landed and skated out, gliding towards the bench for a drink where Allen had already claimed a spot, flushed from exercise and breathless but still eagerly chatting with his manager.

"It still astounds me you have the flexibility to pull off a Beillmann spin into your twenties," Link said, clicking his pen thoughtfully. Allen's smile was half bashful and half insufferably pleased.

"Constant practice, I guess?"

Kanda reached back, carding back each loose strand as he worked quickly to untie and retie his hair.

"It won't matter which shapes you can bend yourself if you can't build up your stamina," he said. He supposed it hardly made sense to give advice to a competitor, but then again, there was no ignoring the fact Allen's performances were at their sloppiest in the last half of his programs.

"He's not wrong," Link quipped, seeming to consider it. The pen clicked again, and he briskly turned a page over on that damned clipboard.

Allen rolled his eyes indulgently, pulling his arms above his head in a sweeping motion that caught Kanda's eyes. He exhaled breathily into a stretch that bared his stomach, pale skin in striking contrast against the dark of his shirt and pants, the material so tight it shouldn't have even been moving in the first place. The curving arc from his seeking hands, down the line of his neck, and into the small of his back was so pleasing Kanda didn't realize he was staring until Allen dropped his arms, breaking the hold he had over Kanda.

Kanda looked away, searching for his water bottle as Link clicked his tongue in disappointment.

Link cleared his throat before shuffling through his jacket to grab a journal. He flipped through it and paused on a page, "Walker, after this you have lessons with Nyne." Kanda could feel Link's stare weigh heavy on him and turned to meet it with a raised brow. "So do you, Kanda."

"Tch," Kanda looked away, scowling, "you're not my manager."

"Fortunately, as well. However, your manager isn't present at the moment, and you are... in dire need of management. Did you even remember the appointment?"

Kanda's scowl darkened, but he didn't say anything.

"I rest my case," Link said, returning to his clipboard so smugly that Kanda wanted to reach over and break it in half over his head.

Thoughtful, Allen ran his fingers through his hair where it clung to his skin, and Link reached, seemingly without thinking, to help, brushing aside some of the strands Allen missed and in the same motion tugging a hair tie off his wrist to hand over.

"You always forget to bring one," Link said fondly, and Allen grinned up at him, taking the tie from his fingers. Somehow, the sight sent a curl of something unpleasant lancing straight through Kanda, and he pursed his lips.

"Why should I remember when you always have one for me?"

"That's really not the point," Link muttered, and Allen laughed kindly, easily pulling his hair through the red tie.

Allen looked sort of good that way, with that short ponytail keeping his hair out of his eyes— though Kanda wouldn't admit it even at gunpoint. Still, somehow, he'd been put on edge; something just wasn't right in Allen's shining smile, or Link's fond exasperation and his damned tie in Allen's hair. He pulled his eyes away and shook it off, focusing on retying his skates.

"Alright," Link said crisply, tugging on his sleeve to look at his watch. "Break is over for you two - get back on the ice."

 

* * *

 

 

Klaud Nyne's studio was clean and well-kept, almost intimidating in it's sterility. Her regular lessons ran from early afternoon to evening, where Allen and Kanda received private ones in preparation for their skating. Despite having a full day's work behind her, Nyne unfortunately lost none of her precision.

"Bring your leg up higher, Kanda!" Nyne snapped.

Kanda scowled as he met Allen's amused smile through the wall of mirrors. Fuck that beansprout and his flexibility. Kanda wasn't built for that kind of shit no matter how much skating demanded it. Still, he forced his leg higher, biting back a wince at the strain. If there was one thing he hated about skating, it was the damned ballet lessons.

Nyne put them through their paces, though at some points the lessons became specialized to cater to Allen's significantly more demanding routines. Kanda's didn't incorporate as much unearthly bending as Allen's did, and for good reason.

A light sheen of sweat glistened on Allen's forehead under the studio's lights as Kanda was left to practice his simple stretches and Nyne beat into Allen what Cross thought was best.

Cross was a hellish coach - both from rumours Kanda had heard and from watching Allen's own practices on the rink. Cross was the kind of coach you were well-advised from having, the kind that pushed you too hard too fast.

Except Allen seemed to thrive under the pressure instead of folding. He never broke - even now, as Kanda watched Allen slowly bring his leg up high, grasping his ankle above his head and breathing steadily, Allen forced himself to bend and accept.

Their ballet practices were only to keep their bodies limber now. They had learned most of what they used in their routines years ago, and so practices were used to retain the muscle memory of the stretches, though Allen had to work harder to keep his unnatural flexibility than Kanda did.

Nyne dismissed them with crisp instructions to cool down properly and not do anything too stupid on their ways home. She left them and returned to her office in the back of her studio, leaving the both of them to pack up and head home for the evening.

"Hey asshole," Allen said lightly as they changed in the locker room. He seemed flush, towelling the slight damp of sweat off his face; but, no matter how exhausted he might be, there was no extinguishing the bright spark of energy in his eyes. Kanda had no idea how he kept it up.

"What, dipshit?" Kanda said just as easily, shoving his clothes into his gym bag.

"I'm hungry."

"You're always fucking hungry, what's new?"

"What's _new_ is that I want to go out to eat with you!" Allen said brightly, and Kanda threw him a strange look.

"Okay, so? _I_ don't want to go eat with you - watching you eat is actual torture."

"Oh come on," Allen wheedled, plopping onto to the bench to tie his shoe laces. He glanced up at Kanda. "We have tomorrow off! How about some drinks? I'll even pay for yours."

"Go alone."

"Are you being intentionally dense, or does it come to you naturally?" Allen demanded, swinging his bag over his shoulder.

"What the fuck are you saying?" Kanda asked, feeling too tired for dealing with Allen's usual brand of bullshit nonsense.

"I'm _saying,"_ Allen drawled, "that I want to spend time with you." He paused. "Is that clear enough for you now?"

"Why?" Kanda asked, genuinely confused and more than a little offended.

"Why not?" Allen threw back.

Kanda paused, racking his brain for a suitable comeback and coming up empty. He very much suspected there wasn't one.

"Fine," Kinda said instead. He let out a short breath of air, and Allen's eyebrows shot up, apparently pleased.

"Really?"

"Well, if you're asking me, you must be pretty desperate for company."

Allen hummed, seeming unaffected. "See, I know you _meant_ that as an insult, but the way you said it, it just sounds like you have low self-esteem."

Kanda shot Allen a withering glare. "Christ, would you quit being a little shit? I said I'd fucking go to dinner with you."

"Then let's fucking go to dinner!"

"Fine!"

There was a beat.

"So, I'm thinking chicken nuggets."

 

* * *

 

 

In the end, Kanda vetoed chicken nuggets, but the two of them did find their way to a nearby diner— the warm, family-owned kind that kept its doors open long into the night. They ate a quick meal; Kanda tossing verbals barbs over his salad, Allen returning them with _a_ n effortless, malicious glee. From there, they moved on to the bar.

Allen made good on his promise to pay for Kanda's drinks, driving Kanda to drink with the kind of fantastic gusto that was typically reserved for weddings and funerals. Professional athletes had pretty deep wallets, but even they could feel a hit every now and then.

They sat crowded against one another in one tight booth, illuminated in the soft, dim glow of the lamplight over them. All around, Kanda could hear the indistinct murmur of conversation, drinks being poured, glasses clattering against tables and the low laughter of strangers. They created a sort of faraway background noise, undercutting the clearer and more immediate sound of Allen's voice. When the topic moved to figure skating, he spoke earnestly, slumping against Kanda's side and gesticulating wildly as he attempted (and failed) to explain his upcoming program.

When Kanda asked him to explain how the hell he was pulling off those damned Beillman spins, Allen just grinned, finally resorting to drawing a sloppy diagram of his routine on a napkin.

Allen's head was almost unbearably warm against Kanda's shoulder, but after practicing almost all day and eating a full meal, he couldn't find the energy to push him off. He could feel tendrils of Allen's hair sliding against the fabric of his shirt as Allen lazily talked, voice soft and low.

"It takes a lot of stretching," Allen said, gesturing with his pen to the napkin and brushing intimately against Kanda's arm in the process. The touch of him felt good, somehow, and when he brushed away to scribble with a renewed intensity, Kanda found himself missing it. "And it kind of hurts at times - but it feels amazing."

"I couldn't do that," Kanda said, picturing the way Allen's body had contorted in practice, bending and reaching. Allen's poor skills at drawing didn't do the real life image any justice.

Allen smiled; and in the haze of cheap booze, Kanda allowed himself to be reluctantly charmed.

"Sure you could. Just takes a little practice— and a good teacher." He took a drink, coming away from it with lips shining in the warm lights. "It's incredible, this spin. You're balancing entirely on one foot and spinning around so quickly. Men don't do this for several reasons, one being the flexibility but the other being that we're top heavy. So putting all our weight up high like that makes us more vulnerable to falling, and in that kind of position there's all sorts of ways we could get hurt. But - when you do it, it takes your breath away. The vulnerability, exposing yourself, spinning that fast— it's..."

"Could you show me?" Kanda asked, wishing he could see it from up-close instead from far across rink. See the exertion and strain of muscles and the goddamn beauty of it.

Allen pressed closer, looking up at him. "Now?" he asked, tone bordering on incredulity. This close, Kanda could smell the humid summer rain lingering on his skin, intermingling with dried sweat. The scent of it was salty sweet, and somewhere, at the back of the mind, was the mad impulse to chase it— though he knew better than to get too close to Allen Walker.

Instead, he tried to picture it; body tense as a wire as he twisted himself into position, body taut as it moved in to complete the motion. Perfect. Allen had called it vulnerable. Kanda didn't think he'd ever be capable of true vulnerability, but he sure as hell liked it on Allen.

Kanda froze; a lump forming in his throat he couldn't quite fight down. In way of speaking, he nodded.

"I don't think I could do it... while drunk."

"Why not?" The words collapsed from Kanda's mouth without invitation.

"It requires finesse," Allen said, the smile in his tone growing suspiciously sly. "You put me on the ice, now, I'd just topple over."

"You'd find a way, I'm sure."

"It might involve some fumbling."

"Maybe that's fine by me."

Allen raised an eyebrow, eyes dark, lashes fanning low. "What, you like it a little rough?"

Kanda wondered if they were still talking about the Beillmann spin.

"You do, don't you?" Allen continued, eyes shining with a half-delighted mischief. The force of his attention was very nearly disconcerting, enough that Kanda found himself tearing his eyes away, instead glancing down at his glass as if in self-defense.

"You're drunk," Kanda finally said, distasteful. Allen laughed, a bright, buoyant sound, his head dipping forward to rest against Kanda's arm.

"I'm better off than you are!" he said, reaching between them for Kanda's still half-full drink. He swirled the liquid around thoughtfully before taking a sip, scowling at the taste. "Sober you wouldn't ask to see me do a Beillmann."

"Sober me wouldn't be sitting here," Kanda said without thinking. Allen winced beside him, the movement exaggerated by how close they were. It became suddenly unbearable to be so close to him, to feel the heat of his skin even through the layers of their clothes compounded by the humid weight of rain in the air. Except, when he tried to move away he found himself falling further onto Allen's side.

He laughed, pushing back and resting his head against Kanda's shoulder again. "Oh, you've really drank too much. Can you even get home from here?"

"Of course I can," Kanda snapped, insulted. "I'm not some stupid dumbass who can't tell North from South."

"Oh, ouch," Allen said sarcastically. "What hotel are you staying at?"

Kanda paused, thinking. All he could remember was the ugly ass paisley bedspread, but he sure as hell wasn't going to tell Allen that.

Allen laughed again anyways. "You're an idiot!" Kanda marveled at how he could be insulting someone and still sound fond while doing it. "Where's your phone?"

"My bag," Kanda said eloquently. Allen reached across him, brushing against his stomach to grab the bag from Kanda's other side. He dragged it across Kanda and into his own lap, going through the pockets as Kanda watched curiously. After a minute of fruitless searching Allen sighed and rested his hands forcefully on top the bag.

"Is it in _this_ bag?" Allen thought to ask.

"No."

"Really now," Allen said. "Why do you have two gym bags?"

Kanda shrugged. "One of them goes back with my coach."

"And your phone is in that bag?"

"Yeah," Kanda said, as if it were obvious.

"Why the hell would you go around without your phone?"

Kanda shrugged again, smiling lightly as it also jostled Allen slightly. "I never use it, why would I carry it around?"

"You're a dumbass," Allen said unkindly, and Kanda responded by shoving against Allen's shoulder. Allen shoved back, but when Kanda moved to retaliate he found himself simply staying. "Alright," Allen didn't mention Kanda's sudden boneless slump, so Kanda resolved to ignore it himself, "I either call Cross and interrupt whatever fling he's doing at the moment and earn myself five laps _or_ I take you home."

Even drunk, Kanda didn't want to go to Allen's home - he could only imagine it'd piss him off simply setting foot in there. "Go do five laps."

"Fuck _that,"_ Allen said, zipping Kanda's bag up properly. "After drinking this much? You've lost your mind." He dug through his own gym bag, pulling out a wallet.

"Never had it if I'm sitting here with you," Kanda said, simply for the sake of being an ass in return.

"Whatever. Complain all you want, I'm calling us a cab."

It seemed to Kanda like the cab arrived moments after Allen called, and he watched in glee as Allen paid their tab. It felt disturbing to lose control over his own limbs when he normally held them in such rigid discipline. He didn't mind so much though, because Allen kept laughing the whole time, bright and airy and breathless, refreshing in the humid summer night.

The brief trip from bar to cab was enough to let the rain soaked sky press down on his skin, and he wondered if he smelled as deeply of it as Allen did, lingering in his hair and in the brush of skin when he encouraged Kanda into the cab.

Allen slid in after him across the leather, and Kanda distractedly ran his fingers over the worn seats, rubbing the pads of his fingertips against it in wonder. He sat determinedly in the middle, and so Allen had to lean against him, thigh pressed against thigh, to tell the driver his address. When he sat back his arm lined up neatly against Kanda's, and Kanda found he enjoyed the contact, so he let it stay.

The cab started, jostling him into leaning further against Allen, who remained firm and steady. There were a lot of potholes and Kanda found it more convenient to simply remain resting beside Allen, who didn't seem to mind at all.

"Go to sleep, Kanda," Allen said with soft laughter in his voice. "I'll wake you when we get there."

Kanda didn't want to, but there was something about the rhythmic city lights passing overhead and the soft rumble of the engine he could feel even through the seats that was soothing. He let his head fall against Allen's shoulder, closing his eyes and timing his breaths to Allen's.

He fell asleep just as their car passed through a tunnel, the darkness swallowing it whole.

**Author's Note:**

> the product of several nights of yelling, crying, obsessing over yuzuru, and roughly 3000 ml of arizona iced tea. inspired by yuri on ice, we couldn't help but take a dip into the subject on our first long collaborative work. 
> 
> research by nea, chicken nuggets by kimmy.
> 
> taco bell will return with a vengeance.
> 
>  _Kimmy I swear, taco bell is going to_ stay _dead._


End file.
